EARLY MAY. PARIS IS warming up, readying herself for summer’s giddy party. The trees out on the boulevards and down by the Seine are decked out in their prettiest pink and white. The café terraces are rammed with people from dawn to dusk and beyond (all through the night in Montparnasse). The people at the tables are laughing louder than they did last month or the month before. The sun shoots dazzling shafts between buildings, across rooftops, around street corners.

The windows are wide open at the Shelby Kings’ apartment on this sunny May evening. The nets hanging inside are floating on the breeze and billowing into the rooms. To anyone passing along the Rue de Lota it would be obvious that this is a place where foreigners live. A Parisian would never tolerate the courant d’air—those unhealthy drafts and the possibility of getting a chill. But the movement of Parisian air, with its heady cocktail of flowers, traffic fumes, baking, cigarette smoke, coffee, eau de cologne and the river, is something both Robert and Genevieve enjoy.

The rooms themselves are quiet. Genevieve has gone out and taken the car. Céline, the maid, is visiting her mother. Only Robert is at home. He’s in Genevieve’s shoe room, taking down boxes at random and peeping in. He gets a thrill out of this—a tingly, sexy little thrill. It’s not the shoes themselves that excite him. It’s not even the thought of his wife wearing the shoes or taking them off. It’s the thrill you get from trespassing, from reading someone’s diary. He would never dream of coming in here when she’s at home. She makes it abundantly clear that this room is her private domain. And she doesn’t let him touch the shoes. It’s as if he’s some boy with dirty hands who can’t be trusted. But he comes in here a lot, when he’s alone.

Now, where to begin? Third shelf up, second box from the left: A pair of green satin party shoes, the front panel inlaid with strange Egyptian motifs. No mark at all on the soles—she’s never worn them. Most likely, she never will.

Two shelves further up the wall and five boxes to the right, here are a pair of buckled evening pumps in blue brocade. At least he thinks they’re pumps. He doesn’t quite understand the difference between a pump and a court shoe, though Genevieve has explained. Both kinds of shoe are enclosed and hold to the foot without a fastening of any sort. See, the ornate buckle on this pair is purely decorative and serves no practical purpose. His friend Harry would make a quip if he were here: That’s how women are—pretty but useless. Not that he agrees with Harry. Harry is Harry, that’s all.